Warhead On Legs

Title: Virtue
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: The Slug Club
Pairing: Blaise/Ginny
Word Count: 3500
Rating: PG
Summary: The virtues of the courtesan are Timing, Beauty, Cheek, Brilliance, Gaiety, Grace, and Charm.

The Slug Club had a quiet but heartfelt party at the start of term which Harry declined to attend. Ginny had spent a few moments reassuring him that she didn’t feel bad about their abrupt and necessary (she agreed) break up at the end of last term, which as a consequence made her late to the function.

The conversation had limped along for several minutes at the beginning. She knew it would have started with an enthusiastic story as Slughorn tried to lighten the air with an anecdote and failed. There would be a general mumbling, some back and forth as he reminded everyone of who they were and why they were there and what importance they had in the world. As though his idea of importance matched everyone else’s, but she hadn’t minded when he tried to make them believe it with such cheer. It was, at least, well-intentioned.

She waited outside the door for a moment with her palm pressed to the wood and her sleep-drunk mind trying to question her ability to hold a smile.

( Read more... )

Title: Alanis
Author: Jaguar
Rating: PG
Fandom: House
Summary: Wilson makes an attempt.
Disclaimer: I went with a plotline that has nothing medical whatsoever because I'm lazy and didn't feel like researching something fun and medical. So nyah.


James Wilson was a cad and a bounder. He knew it well. He had been told so, repeatedly, and in language both fair and foul.

The first time he screwed up he was horrified at himself. He was, after all, generally a nice person. So how could he do this to a woman as wonderful, as beautiful as his beloved wife?

The second time he screwed up he started to get an inkling of what it was, but he still didn’t want to admit it to himself. Vainly, in sheer futility, he told himself it wasn’t him it was her, that she had driven him to it. The rationalization was weighted down by the complete lack of proof.

The third time he screwed up he didn’t even bother to deny it when she finally threw him onto the safety of Greg’s non-judgmental couch. He counted his friend’s ceiling whorls and wondered if it was worth it to try again.

“What do you mean, again, you idiot? You’ve never done this before.”

Greg muttered something at him that sounded like a ‘go to sleep’ but he ignored him. One hundred and thirty seven swirls later, or had some of those been the same? He finally got off the couch. Grabbed his jacket and left. He knew the way back by heart, by now, although it was the first time he’d driven it with a clear mind. Served him right to stand out in the cold, waiting. The door opened.

“I’m sorry.”

Title: Las Mañanitas
Author: Jaguar
Rating: PG
Fandom: El Mariachi (El Mariachi / Desperado / Once Upon A Time In Mexico)
Summary: El Mariachi contemplates the self-percieved wreck of his life as he prepares to leave the sanctuary of the church.


Contrary to what the weasel had implied, Mexicans weren’t that short. And he was hardly the biggest Mexican they had ever seen.

But he was adequate at filling a doorway, which he did with a vengeance.

The church was not plentiful with windows, and the candles barely cast a glow on the floor much less shone with any kind of brightness. He didn’t mind. It wasn’t that he liked the darkness out of some illiterate need to match his soul. It wasn’t even that dark, either. But the muted light was softer on his senses, and gave him a kind of rest he was never able to find in actual sleep.

His fingers found the sharp ends of steel guitar strings and poked them endlessly till they bled, just a little. He rarely used steel guitar strings for anything acoustic. This wasn’t even his, he’d picked it up off a dead man trying to get close enough to him to kill him. Not that he cared, but the man had interrupted his sulk.

He knew what he had to do. He was afraid of doing it.

Not what he had to do. Yes. He had to do it. She wouldn’t approve. But she was long gone.

“Estas son las mañanitas que cantaba el Rey David…” His fingers found the tune the same way his mother had found the tune; by instinct. How many generations had sung the Mañanitas from parent to child? He smiled.

He was still standing in the doorway, and it was deep enough to shade his eyes from the sunlight. Which was good. It was the heat of the day outside, bright and baking. An hour when any sensible mariachi would have been a la cama. The days when he had been a sensible, simple mariachi were long gone. Gone with her, the first and second times he’d tried. He’d tried so hard, too.

Third time lucky? Third time would not be any sort of charm for him, he wouldn’t take that risk. He’d gone through enough friends, enough loved ones, enough brothers both adopted and born to last a lifetime. Some of them he’d killed, some of them he might as well have killed, some of them he’d gotten killed. Confessional was a long litany of his crimes. But he was afraid to walk without at least a pretense of asking forgiveness, even if he had never believed it would be forthcoming anyway.

“Our father,” he hissed. Grated. Too many whiskey nights and screaming. “Who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name.”

It was time. It was more than time, but he had to wait until he was ready. If he didn’t, he would be off his game and spoil the whole thing. Get more people killed. Wouldn’t want that on his conscience. One day it would be too much, then, boom.

“Perdóneme para lo que hecho,” he murmured. “y para lo que tengo que hacer.”

El Mariachi took a breath and stepped into the sunlight.